


If We Wake Up And You Wanna Break Up

by nana_banana



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adult Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Arguing, Beta Derek Hale, Cheating, Cheating (With Each Other), Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sex, Keep In Mind That Derek Hale Is Naked For The Entirety Of This Fic, Language, M/M, Married Derek Hale, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mentioned Lydia, Mentioned Paige, Mentioned Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Naked Cuddling, Past Derek Hale/Paige, Some Humor, True Mates, Werewolf Mates, You're Welcome, not a song fic, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26352241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nana_banana/pseuds/nana_banana
Summary: If we wake up and you wanna break upThat's coolNo, I won't blame you* * *[Excerpt]“Derek,” Stiles whispered against his sun-kissed skin. “Hush.”Ignoring him, Derek spoke again.“I'm leaving Paige.”Stiles stopped.Closing his eyes, he drew his arms away from warm skin, curling into himself as if he could distance himself from that sentence.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 14
Kudos: 361





	If We Wake Up And You Wanna Break Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RisuAlto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisuAlto/gifts).



> Title & summary are lyrics from that Bruno Mars song "Marry You". No, this isn't a song fic. Enjoy.
> 
> (Btw, this fic is for Risu, bc her birthday is super soon. Happy birthday! Damn, I hope you like this.)

Soft breath whispered into Stiles' cheek.

“I love you.”

The window was open, the pleasant, though humid morning breeze sifting through. The room was lit by the pre-dawn light beyond it. The oak, hardwood floors were littered with articles of clothing. In his direct eyeline, he could see the glint of a metal buckle, the belt still wound through the loops of the wrinkled, black dress pants.

Hitch of a breath, hesitant, and again, those words, softer and firmer all at the same time.

“I love you.”

A gentle, trembling kiss to the back of his neck, lips a staccato against his skin.

“Did … did you hear me?”

For several seconds, Stiles did not reply. He lingered in the moment, basking in the humid air against his skin not covered by the comforter of the bed. There was a long, sturdy body pressed against his back, a soft cock pressed against his asscheeks, still wet with sex. The mattress beneath them was warm and comfortable, easing into their dips and giving to their curves. It felt like lying on a cloud, if clouds were made of cotton.

The voice rose again, a note of fear came with it.

“Stiles?”

“I heard you,” Stiles finally replied. He could hear when the body stilled behind him, barely daring to breathe. A wry smile curved his lips, and he eased back into the heated press of the comfort behind him. Easily, he said, “I love you, too.”

And his heartbeat was steady because it was true.

The body eased again, relief palpable in his breath as the tension left it.

Turning, Stiles curled into strong, warm arms, taking a deep breath of musk, sex, and comfort. The arms wrapped around him, tight in relief and love.

“Had me worried for a second there.”

Stiles looked up into a beautiful burst of colors, irises splashed with pale greens, greys, blues, and yellows, a soft pastel rainbow sans reds. The look in them was a good kind of exhausted, filled with warmth and adoration. He leaned in, pressing a gentle, chaste kiss to lips softened by hours of use.

“I love you so much.”

Stiles let the words fall over him, wrapped himself in them like the comforter around their bodies. He soaked in them, taking in a deep breath as if he could allow them into his lungs.

“You're my everything.”

Stiles squirmed, a smile spreading on his lips as he ducked under a strong chin, pressing kisses to a welcoming throat.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered against his sun-kissed skin. “Hush.”

Ignoring him, Derek spoke again.

“I'm leaving Paige.”

Stiles stopped.

Closing his eyes, he drew his arms away from warm skin, curling into himself as if he could distance himself from that sentence.

“I know,” Derek hurried to say. “I've said it before. But it's true. It's real. I saw a lawyer — Whittemore. It's underway, I'm leaving Paige.”

Sighing softly, Stiles opened his eyes. The room was lighter now, washed in more color than the blues and shadows of the dark. Dawn was breaking over the horizon. Reaching up, he took Derek's chin into his hands and pressed a kiss to his soft lips. Derek leaned into it, a happy noise leaving him. But Stiles pushed away, looking into his warm eyes and memorizing the love in his features.

Derek's expression was slack and unguarded, eyes crinkling at the edges and mouth curling into a smile. He had week-old scruff, paved across his jaw, and Stiles rubbed his thumbs through it, delighting in the soft feel.

Then Stiles said, “Don't leave Paige. Not for me.”

A crease formed in Derek's brow, and he tilted his head in confusion, shoulders straightening from his slump as he moved up onto his elbow to stare down at him.

“For who else would I leave her for?” Derek asked him.

“Yourself,” Stiles replied. “To be happy, free, unburdened by guilt?” He raised an eyebrow at Derek. “Do it for that, not for me.”

“Two birds, one stone, right?” Derek countered with a one-armed shrug.

“No,” Stiles said. “Not for me.”

The crease in Derek's brow deepened, and he looked away, across the room, before returning to his gaze.

“I don't understand,” Derek said.

Breathing in, Stiles let it out in a long sigh. He looked away, opening his mouth, but thought better of it. Shifting out from underneath Derek's shadow, he sat up and met his gaze.

“Leave Paige if you want,” Stiles said, voice level. “But you won't do it for me.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, a growl at the edges of his words. “You're not making sense.”

His eyes flashed blue, and Stiles hummed.

“Maybe you don't understand me,” Stiles said, “but your instincts do.”

Derek sat up at that, brow puckered so severely that Stiles had the idle thought it would remain that way. Reaching out, he soothed at Derek's brow, drawing a gruff laugh from him.

“Stiles,” Derek repeated, still growly, but more affectionate. He did not follow with anything else.

Smiling, Stiles leaned in and kissed him, smoothing their lips together and breathing in sharply at the familiar tingling in his spine. He drew away as Derek tilted his head to deepen it, earning himself an annoyed huff.

“I love you,” Stiles said, and he marveled at how Derek's expression softened instantly. It was one of those ooey-gooey moments that brought to mind all the cliches of romantic comedies. Derek was the star, struck dumb with cupid's arrow.

And for a moment, Stiles wanted to be his leading co-star. He wanted to delve into this love with gusto. Wanted to gorge himself on Derek's affection and love. Wanted to smother himself until he was so dizzy he could not think.

But Stiles swept the thought away in an instant. He was cynical to his core, and a romcom was not in the cards for him.

Smiling at Derek, he shuffled back and off the bed. Derek shifted after him, slower with confusion clouding his dopey expression.

“Where are you going?” Derek asked him, amusement tingeing his words with a lightness that could make Stiles float if he allowed it to.

“Just getting my clothes,” Stiles said.

“Why?” Derek asked him. “Come back to bed.”

But Stiles did as he had said. He moved around the room, collecting his clothes from where he had littered them over the floor. He picked up Derek's by accident and tossed them aside before finding his own. As he slipped on his underwear, he heard Derek leave the bed. When the band snapped into place on his hips, Derek was there, turning him around and pulling him close. There were hands tugging at the clothes hanging off Stiles' arm, and he gripped them so they could not be taken.

“Stiles,” Derek huffed. “What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed,” Stiles said obviously. He tugged his shirt free from Derek's hold and tossed his pants at the bed so he could slip it on. He had only gotten his arms in when Derek took hold of the cotton, a displeased look in his eye.

“Come back to bed,” Derek requested.

“No, I have to go,” Stiles said, and Derek frowned at that, tilting his head in puzzlement as he gazed at Stiles' chest. Because it was not a lie.

“Why?” Derek asked, raising his eyes to Stiles'. He allowed the shirt to be pulled from his grasp, watching morosely as Stiles pulled it on.

“Because,” Stiles said as he grabbed his pants. He stuffed his legs into them, yanking them on and quickly buttoning them. “It's time.”

“Time for what?” Derek asked. His eyebrows rose then as if in comprehension. “Stiles,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I told you yesterday. Paige isn't coming home until Sunday.”

“Oh, I remember,” Stiles said as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks. They were a little crooked, but he ignored it as he stuffed a foot into his left shoe. He reached for the right, and suddenly, Derek was snatching it away. His expression had changed again, from lighthearted annoyance to stormy and fearful.

“Then why are you leaving?” Derek bit out.

“Because it's time for me to go,” Stiles said slowly.

Derek stiffened. Standing naked in the room slowly filling with the first rays of the sun was an incongruous sight to Stiles' eyes. It lent a vulnerable look to Derek who was usually so fierce and strong. His body was sans clothing, sans armor, and he looked smaller than Stiles had ever seen him.

“I don't understand,” Derek said, his voice a growl, but a plea in his tone.

Standing, Stiles shuffled over with only one shoe. His gaze went to the wall, between the two doors of the closet and bathroom. There, hung a large wedding picture, the frame metal and gilded in gold. There was a younger Derek there, clean-shaven and fresh. His eyes were gleaming and mirthful, filled with love and affection. His skin was warm with the rays of the sun striking the glass, illuminating the photo. Derek was much thinner there. His large muscles nowhere to be seen and arms wrapped around the waist of a pretty, laughing brunette. They looked absolutely lovely.

They looked absolutely in love.

Looking back to Derek, Stiles took him in. Derek was a wall of muscle, body grown into itself and nothing gangly about it. His face was fuller with adulthood, with laugh lines, thicker eyebrows, a scruff that tapered down to his adam's apple. His body was hirsute, chest a bed of black curls. He was aged and his olive skin less tan, his eyes filled with years, his hair grown out. There was nothing of the smiling youth. Especially with the desperate scowl clinging to his face and drawing the corners of his lips down.

Naked as the day he was born and body washed in mostly grey light where it stood away from the sun's morning rays, Derek's shoulders were tight as if tensed to act. It seemed like any sudden movement could set him off.

Slowly and silently, Stiles held out a hand.

Derek's eyes darted to it, and his fingers clenched around the shoe, shifting it back as if he wanted to pull it behind himself. His eyes were hard, but Stiles could see the confusion and the hurt lingering there. He could see a dawning fear, and his body trembled where it stood.

“Explain,” Derek said, and it sounded reluctant, wrenched from his throat.

Taking in a silent breath, Stiles dropped his gaze for a moment. He looked at Derek's feet, noting how Derek's weight was shifted forward, toes tensed on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Derek said then, and it was like an entirely different conversation. The mood of it shifted to the left. His eyes were glowing blue. “Stiles,” he repeated, voice raw and filled with accusation, “what are you _doing?”_

Stiles was sure he actually meant “why are you doing this”. Because that sound was filled with a tentative knowledge, a reluctant one like he was stubbornly ignoring it and trying to convince Stiles to do the same.

“Give me my shoe,” Stiles said.

“You said you love me,” Derek shot back. His eyes were burning, betrayed. It was hard to look at them. “And I told you — I — the divorce is going through. I'm leaving her. I _am.”_

“I believe you,” Stiles said honestly.

“Then what are you doing?” Derek said, smaller and weaker.

“I told you,” Stiles said. He did not look away. “You're not leaving her for me.”

“You want me to stay with Paige?” Derek said, face scrunching up in disbelief.

“No,” Stiles said. He felt so exhausted, and not just because of the sex they recently had. “I want you to leave her for you.”

“I am!” Derek snapped. “That's why I'm doing it! I want to be with _you!”_

“I don't want to be with you,” Stiles replied, short and quick, and Derek froze as the words struck him. His glowing blues stuttered and faded.

He looked at Stiles, eyes widening, face slack with stupefaction.

“I won't be loved by you,” Stiles said, cringing at the words, embarrassed by how needlessly dramatic they sounded. “I mean, I don't want this. With you. So leave Paige. Go ahead. But do it for you, because I won't be there at the end of it.”

All Derek did was stare at him. It was like he was still processing, lips parted, jaw slack with shock.

“Please give me my shoe,” Stiles said, holding out his hand.

Derek tore his gaze away, looking towards the window as he shuttered his face, settling into something neutral, defensive — something that did not look like the gut-wrenching heartbreak that lingered in the tightness of his eyes. After breathing in, slow and steady, he looked back to Stiles.

His eyes began to glow again, his mouth pursing in a familiar manner as it became more crowded. His bare shoulders flexed, rising and falling with tension.

“I don't understand,” he said, guttural and pained, fangs peeking from his lips. “You love me. You weren't lying.”

“I do love you,” Stiles admitted, his chest tight and hand dropping back to his side. “But I also know better.”

Derek looked confused.

“You loved Paige once,” Stiles said.

“I don't love her anymore,” Derek rushed to say. “I haven't loved her in a long time. I love _you._ Is that what this is? You're scared I'll want her back? Stiles, I love _you,_ only you!” There was desperation there, and Derek moved forward with determination, grabbing Stiles by the elbows and hauling him in. There were claws at his fingertips. His arms wrapped around Stiles, expression cracked open and pleading. “I only love you,” Derek begged.

“I know,” Stiles soothed. He reached out, cupping Derek's face. He pressed kisses to his cheeks, his furrowed brow, his parted, gasping lips. “I know,” he said again, “I know you love me.”

“Then what the hell is this?” Derek gasped. His stubble vanished, replaced by furry chops, his ears turning pointed.

“I won't be another Paige,” Stiles said. “I won't marry you and I won't let you fall out of love with me. I won't let you go off and fuck someone else. I won't let you leave me like you're doing to her. I won't be her.”

“Stiles, are you insane?” Derek growled. “You're _not_ her. I love you. You're _everything_ to me. You're my _anchor.”_

“So was she,” Stiles said, quiet like a curse.

Derek stepped back as if Stiles had struck him. Taking the opportunity, Stiles reached out and plucked the shoe from his loose grasp. Sitting on the bed, he tugged it on and stood. He moved, making to brush past Derek and leave, but there was a clawed hand grabbing his arm, tugging him close.

“Paige wasn't my anchor, you fucking moron,” Derek snapped, and Stiles froze. He turned, watching as Derek's vicious features slipped away. His ears rounded. His stubble returned. His fangs sank back into his gums. The tell-tale prick of his claws vanished. And his eyebrows returned, furrowed so deeply and angrily, that they nearly touched like two arms reaching out, fingers almost touching in a painting.

“She was never my anchor!” Derek snarled, though the subvocal growl was gone from his voice and his eyes stopped glowing. He was entirely human as he glared down at Stiles. “You — you're a fucking idiot,” Derek spat, agitated. “My anchor was my family — it was _always_ my family!”

“Don't lie to me, asshole, you said it used to be anger!” Stiles yelled, indignant. “I asked you, and you said it used to be anger before Paige!”

“Anger for my murdered family!” Derek yelled back. “You idiot! And I never even mentioned Paige!”

“You —” Stiles yanked up the memory from the recesses of his mind, prepared to spit out, verbatim, Derek's words. But instead, he faltered as the conversation rang through his head.

_“For a long time … anger was my anchor,”_ Derek had said, quiet like a secret.

_“Oh, yeah?”_ Stiles had whispered back, curling into Derek's warmth. _“What is it now?”_

_“Right now?”_ Derek had said, brushing his knuckles against Stiles' cheek. _“Right now it's you.”_

_“Oh.”_

“Oh,” Stiles said, echoing his past self.

“'Oh',” Derek echoed mockingly, expression seething. “'Wolves don't just change their anchors _willy-nilly,”_ he bit out, words gnashing through his teeth. “They're permanent unless something drastic happens. Your best friend is a werewolf, you should _know_ this! It was never Paige. Yes, I loved her, but she was never my anchor. It was always my family. _It's always been my family.”_ He gave Stiles a meaningful look at that.

Stiles' heart stuttered in his chest.

“And in case you need me to spell it out,” Derek said savagely, “because apparently you're a fucking _moron_ — that means _you're_ my family, Stiles.” His expression softened from the anger, turning to despair. He opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed. His throat bobbed with the movement, and his eyes turned even sadder. Then again, he parted his lips and whispered, “So don't do this. Please.”

“I don't believe in happy endings,” Stiles blurted. “What's gonna stop you from doing this again — falling for someone you just happen to meet? I've seen it — lived it. You can't promise me forever and I may be stupid enough to want it, but I'm not dumb enough to believe it.” He yanked his arm away. “Look at us!” He shouted before Derek could reply. “We literally just finished fucking in the bed you share with your wife! I've got your cum dripping out of my ass right now! I'm not claiming a moral high ground here because I was just as active a participant, but at least I'm aware of how fucked up this is!

“Because it is — it's fucked up, Derek,” Stiles continued ranting. “You're _married_ and you brought me here to fuck me in the bed you sleep in with your wife! And she doesn't even have a single idea!”

His chest was heaving, eyes burning with tears he was steadfastly ignoring. But Derek merely gazed at him, his own shining eyes transfixed upon him.

“If you think she doesn't know, then you've severely underestimated her,” Derek said quietly.

Cold slipped into Stiles' veins, and his eyes widened as he took a sharp breath.

“What?” He said.

“I may not love her,” Derek said, faltering when Stiles frowned. “Anymore,” he added, raising an eyebrow, and dropping it when Stiles nodded. “But I care about her. And I don't lie to her.” He frowned when Stiles scoffed. “She's been my partner for eight years,” Derek said. “Do you really think you can spend that much time with someone and not figure out their tells? She's known about you for a while. She knew about you even before we slept together.”

At that, Stiles was speechless. And shame like he had never known pooled in his belly. He felt sick and nauseated.

“She doesn't know who you are,” Derek said quickly, reaching out to hold Stiles by his shoulders. “But she knows I have someone. She's never explicitly told me that she knows, but she's been obvious about it. And, like I said, I've never lied to her. And she knows I wouldn't, which is why she's never asked.”

“You're telling me,” Stiles said slowly, “that your wife knows you're cheating on her and she's, what, fine with it?”

“I never said that,” Derek said. His face pinched, and he dropped his gaze. “I've been a coward,” Derek confessed. “Paige … she's been waiting for me to come clean. I haven't wanted to because I didn't want to hurt her. I _care_ about her.” He ignored Stiles' incredulous face. “She's been my partner for eight years, Stiles. She's been a good wife. I'm the one who trashed our marriage. I thought — I don't know what I thought!” He stepped away, moving to the middle of the room where he could see out the window at the sun making its way over the horizon.

“I thought —” He hesitated. “Maybe I could keep being a good husband and be with you. She wouldn't have to get hurt. She could just keep ignoring everything.” He waved a hand as if to indicate the room itself. Which might have been the perfect example of what Paige was meant to ignore.

“A good husband doesn't cheat,” Stiles said. “And of course you've been hurting her. She's your wife and you're fucking someone else while you're fucking her!”

“I haven't touched her since I started touching you,” Derek breathed. He turned slightly, just to meet Stiles' gaze. “Actually, I hadn't touched her for a year before I touched you.”

Stiles blinked, surprised.

“You didn't tell me that,” he said.

“You never asked,” Derek replied. “You never wanted to hear anything about my marriage.”

“Well, no,” Stiles said, huffing. “Why would I want the reminder that I'm a homewrecker?”

“My home with Paige was wrecked long before you came into my life,” Derek told him. “We haven't even shared a bed since a month before I met you.” “Wait, so where does she sleep?” Stiles asked, bewildered. “The guest room?” Derek turned fully, approaching him. The room was filled with golden rays, warm and glowing on his skin, painting him in a gorgeous shade. “No, she took the master bedroom,” Derek said. He gestured around him. “This is the guest room.”

Stiles could not help but glance at the large wedding portrait. And, as if reading his thoughts, Derek snorted.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I thought putting that in here was weird when she first did it, but she said it brightened up the room.” He sighed then, sounding more tired than Stiles had ever heard him. He looked back to see Derek looking mournful and ashamed. “I've been too much of a coward to admit I made a mistake getting married so young to my first love. I should have listened to Laura and waited. But I was young and very stupid.”

“Dude, I'm exactly the age you were when you got married,” Stiles said, feeling affronted.

“Which is why I won't be asking you to marry me for a while yet,” Derek said, raising an eyebrow at him.

“You — wait, what?”

The indignation vanished, replaced with a bubbling, fluttering thing in Stiles' chest.

“You want to marry me?” Stiles said loudly, too much so for six in the morning.

“Did you miss the part where I said you're my anchor?” Derek said wryly. He reached out, brushing back Stiles' hair and cupping his cheek.

“Still processing that part,” Stiles admitted. “Kind of ruined my whole plan of letting you go and leaving while I still had my heart intact.”

There was a shadow of a smile on Derek's lips. He brushed his thumb across Stiles' cheek.

“Do you know when I knew for sure my marriage was a mistake?” Derek asked him.

“When I became your anchor?” Stiles guessed.

“When I first smelled you,” Derek answered. He brought up his other hand to mirror the first. “I didn't just crash into you that day,” he said lowly. “I was looking for you.”

“But you didn't even know me,” Stiles said, confused.

“No,” Derek said, lifting Stiles' head so their lips were a mere inch from meeting. “But I smelled you. I smelled you from across the courtyard. I was waiting for coffee from that green little cart on Main when I caught your scent.” He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “I don't even remember when I started running.”

“Well, I clearly remember when you tackled me like a linebacker,” Stiles snorted. “You scared the hell out of Isaac.” He frowned. “Wait, you told me you were late for a meeting and that you weren't looking where you were going!”

“Oh,” Derek said in full deadpan, “was I supposed to tell you right when I met you that I'd caught your scent and that you were the most marvelous thing I'd ever smelled in my life? That I just started chasing the scent to know what it was before I even knew what I was doing? That it made me want to howl to my entire pack because I'd found my mate?”

“Wait, your what?” Stiles said, mouth falling open. He could not help the way his gut lurched in yearning, his heart beating double-time.

“Are you really that surprised?” Derek snapped. “You're my anchor, Stiles. I cleared an entire one hundred feet in three seconds to get to you. In public! I gave you a mild concussion!” He snorted. “It's a miracle I didn't catch any hunters' attention. Or that no one caught me on camera!” He paused, brow furrowing. “As far as I know,” he added.

“You never told me any of this!” Stiles shouted. “How the hell was I supposed to know! I thought I was just a fling until you told me you were a werewolf! Then I just thought you loved me, but _mates_ — I —” Waving his arms wildly, he stepped back, but did not pull away from Derek's hands. He simply stared up at Derek, watching him as he sighed and shook his head.

“You're an idiot,” Derek said firmly. “Didn't you say —” He shook his head again. “I thought for sure Scott would've told you.”

“All Scott does is ask me if you've managed to tell your wife about us yet,” Stiles said. Then he blinked. “Which makes so much sense now because Scott is a true romantic. He wouldn't have encouraged this at all — oh, my god, that fucker totally knew I was your mate and didn't tell me!” Shoving a hand into his pocket, Stiles yanked out his phone. But before he could dial and bitch out his best friend, Derek was taking the phone away, tossing it to the bed, and redirecting Stiles' face to his own.

“Hey!” Stiles protested.

“Stiles,” Derek said, and though his voice was fond, there was a nervousness to his gaze, a tremble to the tips of his fingers as they brushed against his hair and ears. He cleared his throat, eyes darting around and gulping heavily before he met Stiles' eyes again. “Will you still leave?” Derek asked bluntly, his voice a raspy, unrecognizable thing.

“You just told me I'm your mate,” Stiles said, aghast. “How the hell am I supposed to leave after that?”

“Do you want to?” Derek pressed. His fingers slipped further into Stiles' hair, gripping and caressing as if he craved nothing more than to touch him, as if it were the last time Derek would hold Stiles between his hands. “Do you want to leave?” Derek asked again when Stiles did not answer, forcing the words out with a dry rasp. “I'll let you go,” Derek said, words torn from his mouth like teeth. He breathed shallowly, expression gutted. “If that's what you really truly want — I can do it. I can let you go.” He winced, resignation in his eyes. “Just … just give me a minute.”

“Of course I don't want to leave,” Stiles whispered, and Derek took a relieved breath. “The reason I thought I had to was because I didn't think this was permanent.” Derek's expression contorted itself into something distasteful, but Stiles went on to say, “All I've wanted from you is forever, but I didn't have that guarantee when I thought this was just a heat-of-the-moment romance. And I know guarantees are stupid to expect and completely illogical to want, not to mention impossible, but I didn't want to be like your wife. With you until you found someone else.”

“There won't be anyone else,” Derek said heavily. “You know how mates work.”

“Well, duh,” Stiles said. “It's been six years since Allison, and Scott's still single, after all. He won't even _look_ at anyone else, not even to get his rocks off. And trust me, there's been plenty interested in him.”

There was a sadness in Derek's eyes. For Scott, who Derek had never officially met, for the great loss his best friend had endured when he was sixteen years old. The look made Stiles' throat clog up with emotion. Because losing a mate was no joke. But that still left —

“I should be asking you if this is something _you_ want,” Stiles said quietly. “Because I'm human. You know that. This _mates_ business is only one-sided unless I take the bite.” He took a breath, watching as a wry smile quirked Derek's lips. “Derek, are you willing to risk me finding someone else. Humans are fickle. I love you, but I can't promise you forever. Not with absolute one hundred percent certainty.”

“You can promise me your best,” Derek said. “And I will take it.”

“Derek,” Stiles admonished. “Take this seriously.”

“I am,” Derek said with a nod. “But you could promise me two days and I would still take them.” He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Stiles' own. The heat of his naked body made Stiles feel muzzy and warm. “Because any amount of time with you is worth it for me. And any of it — anything you're willing to give me, is worth it.”

“Don't be an idiot,” Stiles said softly. “Do you really want to end up like Scott? Alone, with no one? Unable to fuck, living a halflife and feeling, like Scott says, like half a puzzle of something that doesn't make sense without the other side of it?”

“Well,” Derek said with an amused grin, “if you try your best, I won't have to.”

“Be serious!” Stiles argued. “Don't put this on me! Think of yourself! You really want to make me your mate? Without a guarantee that it'll even last? Because you know I won't take the bite. I don't want it.”

And just like that, Derek's amused smile vanished from his face.

“Stiles,” Derek sighed. “There's no making a mate. It just is.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked. “Isn't there, like, a mating bite or something?”

“Aren't most of your friends werewolves?” Derek said, incredulous. “How do you not know how mates work?”

“They're all bitten!” Stiles complained. “And only Scott's met his mate!”

Rolling his eyes despite the gravity of the conversation, Derek gave Stiles a flat look.

“A 'wolf's mate doesn't require any kind of bite or ritual,” he explained slowly. “A 'wolf's mate just _is.”_

“Are you telling me that you're permanently bonded to me and you don't even get a _choice?”_ Stiles screeched.

But Derek did not react, even if Stiles had likely made him deaf with the pitch of his voice.

“Mates are supposed to be meant for each other,” Derek said calmly with a shrug. “And you get out what you put into a relationship regardless.” He turned serious then. “And I've been putting my all into ours. You're it for me, Stiles. And I'm happy with that. I don't resent you and I don't wish things were different. I just love you, Stiles. I'm not human, and I don't understand why it's so upsetting to you that I don't have a 'choice', as you say. This is the way it is for werewolves. If I'm happy and fine with it, why does it matter?”

“Free will is a thing,” Stiles snapped.

“And I freely, willingly, want to love you,” Derek argued. “Again, where is the problem?”

“You only love me because you have to,” Stiles argued. “I don't want that!”

“I don't love you because I have to,” Derek snorted dismissively. “I wanted you as soon as I met you, yes, but I fell in love with you because of you, Stiles.”

“You were predisposed to love me,” Stiles said weakly.

“So?” Derek said. “I'm happy. _We_ are happy — or at least we were before you started losing your damn mind over nothing.”

“It's not nothing!” Stiles berated him, smacking one of Derek's glorious pecs in annoyance. “I want to be loved completely for myself, Derek, not because someone somewhere said, 'you know what, these two fuckers, yeah, totes meant for each other'.”

“I could have hated you just as easily as I loved you,” Derek said. “Don't you understand that?”

“You just said we were meant to be!” Stiles snapped.

“Not all mates end up together,” Derek said slowly. “Most 'wolves don't even get to meet their mate. This world is vast and so densely populated that mates are a rarity. But against all odds, we met. And you — you were everything I'd ever wanted. Because you're amazing and how could anyone not fall in love with you?”

“I dunno,” Stiles said. “Ask Lydia.”

“Can we have one argument where you don't bring up Lydia Martin?” Derek groaned, suddenly dropping his hands from Stiles' head. He turned and threw his arms up in agitation. “Forget Lydia Martin. For being a supposed genius, she was a complete idiot for not noticing you. Now stop. I'm done talking about _Lydia Martin.”_

“Okay, okay,” Stiles cried, raising his hands in a plea for mercy. “Sorry!” He grabbed at Derek, lowering his arms and patting at his biceps. “I'm done, I'm done —” At the skeptical look in Derek's eye, he grimaced and said, “I promise! No more Lydia Martin and how much she constantly dragged me without even meaning to —”

“Oh, my go —”

“That was a joke!” Stiles placated. “Now, come here” — he laughed when Derek growled softly — “oh my god, you big baby.”

Derek huffed. Shaking his head, he pushed forward, enveloping his arms around Stiles and sighing heavily.

“Sometimes I don't know why I put up with you,” Derek said dryly.

“Yeah, you do, you fucker,” Stiles snorted.

“As I was saying,” Derek said, an edge to his tone, “there's nothing forced about this, Stiles. I love you. I _want_ you. What's more, for some unfathomable reason, you want me _back.”_ He pulled away for enough to meet Stiles' gaze, expression awed.

“How could I not want you?” Stiles said softly, eyes wide and filled with affection.

“I don't know,” Derek said gruffly. “Maybe ask Lydia Martin.”

“Oh, you fucking asshole,” Stiles groused and then Derek was kissing him. He pressed them together, drawing Stiles close and holding him warmly as the room glowed with sunlight. Stiles was filled with a yearning, clawing love. One that wanted to hold on and never let go. One that hummed through his body and melted any resistance against Derek. One that made him truly, utterly happy. It was good. It was right. And maybe … just maybe … Stiles could put aside his cynicism for once if it meant he could keep this for a while longer.

Maybe he could bear to have hope.

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely nothing to apologize for.
> 
> tumblr: [@floreswrites](https://floreswrites.tumblr.com/)  
> twitter: [@nanadanonini](http://twitter.com/nanadanonini/)


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